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a messianicjewish perspective
a messianicjewish perspective
a messianicjewish perspective
Volume 21:10
ISSN 0741-0352 PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. ©2017EDITOR IN CHIEF: SUSAN PERLMAN EDITOR: MATT SIEGERDESIGN / ILLUSTRATION: PAIGE SAUNDERSJOIN US AT FACEBOOK.COM/ISSUESMAG
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It really is the million-dollar question. Why do we have
to eat this dry, crumbly bread not only for one night,
but for eight nights? While there might be some matzah
connoisseurs out there, for most it is at best passable and
at worst a plague for eight nights! As a friend of mine
put it last year, “I hate Passover! You have to eat food you
don’t like and spend time with relatives you don’t like.” It
is called the “bread of affliction” after all. . . .
But enough with the kvetching. If I’m honest, perhaps
I’m overstating my dislike for matzah, yet the question
remains: “Why on this night do we only eat matzah?”
We of course know the traditional answer: “Because
our ancestors had to leave Egypt in such haste, there
wasn’t enough time for their bread to rise.” But I’m sure
there must be more to it than that.
Taking a look at the Torah, we find that unleavened
bread makes several appearances, all in connection with
the sacrifices that we had to offer. We find that, for the
most part, God specifically instructs us not to mix leaven
with our offerings to Him (see Exodus 23:18 and 34:25).
This, together with the rule about not eating fat, could
lead us to believe that God has some strange eating
habits, perhaps a forerunner to the modern vegan diet.
Or, more probably, God is trying to tell us something.
The rabbis teach that leaven or yeast is used
throughout Scripture as a symbol for sin (see, for
example, Berachot 17a and also Rashi on that passage).
Sin, simply put, is anything bad that we do/say/think. God
didn’t want us to mix leaven with our sacrifices, in order
to teach us that when we approach Him, He expects
us to be pure and holy, just like He is. The very setup of
the Tabernacle teaches us that while God wants to live
among us, He is still decidedly different from us. We were
to never forget that He is a holy God who cannot have
anything sinful in His presence. As He put it, “You shall
be holy, because I am holy” (Leviticus 20:26).
The problem, of course, is that we are not holy. Most
of us would like to think that we are good, law-abiding
citizens. Some of us might even think that we are a bit
above average in the honoring-God department. The
traditional, rabbinic Jewish view on sin seems to subscribe
to this approach. The rabbis teach us that we each have
two inclinations, the yetzer hara (evil inclination) and the
yetzer hatov (good inclination).1 The power to do good or
evil lies in our hands. We are fundamentally good people,
who are sometimes led astray to do bad things.
The understanding that we get from the Tanakh about
sin is, however, very different. As we read the Torah and
the rest of Scripture, it is quite discomforting to realize
that we are not basically good people who sometimes go
astray. We, ourselves, are the problem. Take, for example:
And the Lord saw that the wickedness of man was
great in the earth, and that every imagination of
the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.
(Bereshit/Genesis 6:5 JPS)
The Lord looked down from heaven upon the
children of men, to see if there were any that did
understand, and seek God. They are all gone aside,
they are all together become filthy: there is none that
doeth good, no, not one. (Tehillim/Psalm 14:2–3 JPS)
But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our
righteousnesses are as filthy rags; and we all do
a messianicjewish perspective
a messianicjewish perspective
a messianicjewish perspective
The Good, the Bad and the Unleavened by Aaron Lewin
“Why on this night do we only eat matzah?”
As we read the Torah and the rest of Scripture, it is quite discomforting to realize that we are not basically good people who sometimes go astray.
fade as a leaf; and our iniquities, like the wind,
have taken us away. (Isaiah 64:6)
Our very nature is tainted by sin because we are
born as the descendants of Adam and Eve, who sold
themselves into slavery to sin when they rejected God and
followed the serpent’s advice. King David recognized this
and exclaimed, “Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in
sin did my mother conceive me” (Tehillim/Psalm 51:5 JPS).
Furthermore, the whole sacrificial system of the Torah
which seems so abhorrent to us in the modern world was
designed to teach us that we weren’t good—we had to
constantly bring sacrifices to God for Him to forgive us so
we could draw close to Him. I’m sure the constant sight
of dead animals and blood was a wakeup call to any who
entertained any thoughts of being fundamentally good.
Even our modern world confirms the truth of God’s
understanding of us and sin as shown in the Tanakh.
One just needs to read the headlines to realize that the
world is a broken place, and it’s not just the fault of a few
“bad eggs.” Consider the Shoah: the fact that such utter
depravity could take place in the twentieth century in the
land of the “Poets and Thinkers” is more proof of the
utter corruption of the human race. And whether we like
it or not, you and I are included in that.
So, leaven is used by God in the Bible to teach us
about sin. It’s beautiful then, that at Passover, we cleanse
all the leaven from our home as a symbol of a desire to
lead a life that is sin free. And eating the matzah reminds
us that God expects us to be holy as He is holy. Perhaps
the million-dollar question is not, “Why do we only eat
matzah?” but “How does God expect us to be holy and
how can we deal with the problem of sin in our lives?”
Thankfully, Passover provides the answer, and in a
place that we would least expect it—in the matzah and
in the lamb. We no longer eat lamb at Passover, because
the lambs that we used to eat were sacrifices that had
to be offered at the altar in the Temple in Jerusalem. No
Temple, no altar, no Passover lambs. And yet the central
part of the very first Passover in Egypt was the lamb.
Without the sacrifice of the lamb, without its blood on
our doorposts, our firstborn too would have died. The
lambs died instead of our firstborn.
Thousands of years later, another Passover lamb
would die, so that we could live. The Messiah, Yeshua,
like a lamb led to the slaughter (Isaiah 53:7), gave his
life for us at Passover, so that we can escape the wrath
of God at the “day of the Lord” (Joel 2:1–2) and that
we can “live life to the full” (John 10:10). More than
that, Yeshua died to free us from our corrupt selves and
our slavery to sin so that we can be free to live a life of
purpose that honors God.
While the rabbis teach that since the Temple was
destroyed good works now atone for our sin (see Avot
de Rabbi Natan 4), the Torah teaches something very
different. In Vayikra/Leviticus 17:11 we read, “For the
life of the flesh is in the blood; and I have given it to
you upon the altar to make atonement for your souls;
for it is the blood that maketh atonement by reason
of the life” (17:11 JPS). In other words, our sin led to
death—either our death or the death of a substitute,
in this case an animal, just like at Passover. God never
repealed this commandment and so it still stands today.
We believers in Yeshua recognize that the animal
sacrifices in the Torah pointed forward to the ultimate
sacrifice of the Messiah, who would take away the sin
of the world.
Sometimes Yeshua is mistakenly
Thankfully, Passover provides the answer, and in a place that we
would least expect it—in the matzah and in the lamb.
(continued on page 8)
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Gedalia was only a kid. He wasn’t a kid in the
common sense of the word, meaning “child” or
“offspring.” On the other hand, I suppose one could say
that Gedalia was the child of Malka the nanny goat, who
provided milk for the largest family in Vaysechvoos, for
Duvid the Tanner and his wife, Yetta, were the proud, if
not somewhat overwhelmed, parents of eleven “kids” of
their own. Of course, Malka’s kid was not a child, though
the feat he performed could make you wonder. But we
don’t want to get ahead of our story.
Gedalia was a kid with no future—no
future, that is, other than being passed on
a platter from one guest to the next at
the Passover seder of Yossel and Shayna
Rabinovitch. They were not wealthy
people by ordinary standards, but in a
town as poor as Vaysechvoos, they set a
table most of the townsfolk only dreamed
about—a Passover “feast.”
But before making his appearance—between
the carrots and the potatoes at the Rabinovitch home,
Gedalia’s schedule included a trip to the town shochet.
Poor Gedalia. A label was hung around his neck and
he was led to a pen behind the shop of Shimmon the
Shochet, who declared the sentence of the goat’s demise
to be the following day!
And then something as rare as a kindhearted Cossack
came to Vaysechvoos—a thief. A thief in Vaysechvoos?
This was indeed a rarity, because, after all, there was
nothing to steal in Vaysechvoos! Oh, one could strip some
of the clothing from a clothesline, but who would pay
anything for such rags? Or one could haul away the pots
and the pans, but, like most worldly goods in Vaysechvoos,
they were so old, so bent and so just plain used up, that
only a fool would exert the energy to carry them off.
But to tell you the truth, this thief who came to
Vaysechvoos wasn’t much of a thief. First of all, he was
a Jew and he couldn’t bring himself to steal on the
Sabbath. If he had been a little more articulate, he would
have aspired to be a beggar. But as it was, all he could
do was sneak from one village to the next and try to steal
a couple of chickens or perhaps even a goat. Yonah the
Thief was too terrified to try stealing anything bigger, like
a cow or a horse.
Gedalia the kid was just the right size for Yonah
the Thief, who crept into the pen and slipped a
rope around the neck of the doomed animal. He
pulled Gedalia out of the shochet’s pen, out of
the town and down by the stream which runs
on the eastern border of Vaysechvoos.
Perhaps Gedalia sensed that Shimmon
the Shochet’s pen was not the safest place
for a goat just before Passover, so he allowed
Yonah to drag him off without any protest.
However, when Gedalia stepped into the stream,
he was not prepared for its cold current. He bleated and
he jumped and in his confusion and terror, he began
prancing around in circles. Yonah was caught off-guard,
but was determined to hold onto his end of the rope.
The other end, of course, was tied around the hapless he-
goat’s neck. As the foolish thief turned round and round
in an attempt to keep an eye on his captive, he entangled
himself in his own rope. And before you could say, “Oy
vey!” the klutz tripped and fell into the stream, which
felt like ice to his pupik. He made a quick apology to the
Almighty for being such a schlemiel and then he fainted.
Poor Yonah. Poor Gedalia. They were quite a sight.
The stream was not so deep, but it held enough water to
drown a man who was tangled up with a rope, lying flat
on his pupik!
Now Gedalia was just a little tiny goat, but Yonah
didn’t weigh much either. Well, Gedalia’s only thought
was to escape from the cold stream and from the awful
weight around his neck. So when the thief came to, he
found himself being inadvertently rescued by the goat,
who had somehow managed to pull himself and the
thief up on the bank. The poor bedraggled Gedalia was
bleating so piteously that all of Vaysechvoos, including
Shimmon the Shochet and his apprentices, came out to
see who was making such a racket.
Upon seeing the still entangled Yonah, one of the
apprentices surmised what had happened and shouted, “He
deserves a good beating for trying to steal the little he-goat!”
“How can we beat such a pathetic nudnik?” retorted
the shochet. “We’ll take him to the Sage; he will know
what to do. He’ll mete out the proper punishment for this
pitiful excuse of a thief.”
And a wise decision it was which the Sage of
Vaysechvoos handed down: Yonah was required to clean
the pens of the shochet for three months. Of course,
the shochet paid him a nominal amount and put him
up in the little shed next to the pen. Yonah, who had
repented just prior to passing out in the stream, liked
the punishment so well that he begged to be allowed to
continue, and he has been working there ever since.
You might be wondering about Gedalia the
goat. Ahhh, well let me tell you. He didn’t grace the
Rabinovitch table that Passover or any other. No,
Gedalia was not to be slaughtered, but was treated with
honor and allowed to live out his life in peace. After
all, the Sage explained, the Talmud said of Pharaoh’s
daughter, who withdrew Moses from the water, “He
who saves a life, it is as if he saved the whole world.”
And, the Sage reasoned, though it would be irreverent
to compare Yonah the thief with Moshe Rabeynu, the
whole experience not only saved the life of the thief, but
brought his soul to repentance. The goat had been used
by the Almighty for a noble and lofty purpose, and was
therefore deserving of honor.
shochet: the authorized slaughterer of animals
klutz: a clod; a clumsy slow-witted, graceless person;
an inept blockhead
pupik: navel, belly button
schlemiel: a foolish person; a simpleton; a consistently unlucky
or unfortunate person, a born loser; a clumsy,
butterfingered, all-thumbs, gauche type
nudnik: a pest, a nag, an annoyer, a monumental bore
Moshe Rabeynu: Moses our Teacher
Glossary
I was excited
to be
heading to
the West Coast
to visit my older
brother Steve. My
dad had been there earlier
when Steve moved from our New
York home and found an apartment in Los Angeles. My
dad had returned to New York with the good news that
my brother had found a place with a nice Jewish landlady
who would “keep an eye on him.”
However, Steve told us that he’d begun going to
Friday night Bible studies. That surprised me, but I
expected he would explain more during my spring break
visit. So when Steve greeted me at the airport, after
saying hello, I immediately asked, “What is this about
Friday nights and Bible studies?” He replied briefly that
he believed the Messiah had come. Curiosity turned to
cold fear. Had my brother gone meshuggah? “Oh . . .
really Steve?” I asked. “Who do you think the Messiah is,
anyway?” He responded “Jesus!”
I was horrified! And here I was stuck—on the West
Coast, at Passover time with my non-traditional brother,
only to discover that my brother’s Jesus-believing friends
were having a seder. This was less
than ideal, but I did not want to miss
Passover, so I agreed to go with him.
I have to say that Jewish
celebrations are my favorite
childhood memories, and Passover
at my grandparents’ house was
probably the most memorable.
Every year, my grandfather read
the Exodus story to us while my
grandmother prepared the feast.
Her matzah-ball soup and brisket
were really something! But finding the afikoman was
the most exciting part of the evening. If I found it
before anyone else did, I’d be rewarded with some
pocket change, or candy—it didn’t matter, it was
just the fun of looking for it and being filled with
anticipation. Passover was not a particularly spiritual
experience for me. I grew up knowing about God, but
I rarely spoke to God myself. I went to Hebrew school
every Tuesday and Thursday after regular school, plus
every Sunday morning. I learned to read and write
Hebrew and could recite the traditional prayers.
Like my brother, I was bar mitzvah. And as with him,
it marked the end of my regular synagogue attendance.
Except, of course, on Yom Kippur. That was a family
tradition, and as such, I never questioned it.
I was attending high school at the School of
Performing Arts at the time I made the trip to see Steve.
It was very intense work, and I was looking forward
to spring break. Since Steve wasn’t coming home for
Passover, I would go to him. And now that he was having
Passover with Jesus-believing friends, so would I.
I heard things that night that I had never heard
before—not in Hebrew School, not in synagogue, not
from my mom or dad, not anywhere! And what I heard
A Seder to Remember by Rob Wertheim
My bar mitzvah (above), my wedding (right)
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was from an
amazing source:
the Jewish
Scriptures—
Isaiah, no less.
Isaiah predicted
a servant who
was going to
suffer in the place
of others, to atone
for their sin. At the seder, they compared him to the
Passover lamb, whose blood caused death to pass over
our ancestors’ houses so many years ago. It felt like I
was hearing a Christian belief from the Jewish Bible—
yet it made sense.
I kept reminding myself that Jesus is simply not for
the Jews! Yet I could not dismiss what I had heard. I had
a strong sense that Steve might be right, and I knew I
would soon have to declare where I stood, no matter
what my parents thought.
Not long after this incident, some of Steve’s
Messianic Jewish friends, whom I had met in Los
Angeles, came to New York. They wanted to meet our
parents, and I encouraged my parents to invite them
over, which they did. The visit actually passed very
peacefully. Once again, the believers’ words about Jesus
seemed to ring true. I watched my parents as I listened,
and they seemed interested.
Eventually, our family was invited to attend a local
Bible study at the Jews for Jesus branch in New York
City. My parents and I showed up faithfully every week.
It became clear to me that, like Steve, I believed that
Jesus was the Messiah. I prayed, asking to have my sins
forgiven, and promised to follow Yeshua.
It turned out that my father had received Yeshua too,
right around the time I did! Mom was not happy, but
clearly she was struggling with the same issues the rest
of us had faced. Eventually, she also came to believe in
Jesus, and our family became even closer than we had
been before.
Six years later I married a Jewish woman, Sandy
Cohen, whose upbringing was similar to mine. She
had become a believer in Jesus just one year after I did.
We have three grown children, Saul, Rose and Joshua.
Sandy and I now live in San Francisco. I look forward to
celebrating Passover each year with my family, and with
renewed appreciation for the freedom our family has,
not only to carry on Jewish tradition and heritage, but to
worship God, to trust Him and tell others about Him, as I
believe we were meant to do. n
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Me (left), my parents Fred and Laura (above)
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(continued from page 3) portrayed as a Jewish martyr—a
teacher who tried to bring about sustainable change
but was murdered because he upset the status quo.
And yet in the Brit Hadashah (New Testament) we read
that Yeshua knew that his calling was to give his life at
Passover for us and for all humanity. He knew what was
going to happen and he taught his talmidim (disciples) in
advance, at his last ever Passover seder.
Picture the scene: excitement and anticipation
were written on the faces of those present. All those
assembled could feel that something big was going
to happen soon. Perhaps Yeshua was really going to
challenge the Romans and lift the oppression. And then
he did something strange. After the meal, we read that
he took the cup, which is traditionally the third cup, the
cup of redemption, and said, “This cup that is poured out
for you is the new covenant in my blood” (Luke 22:20).
We then read that he took the bread and said, “This is
my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance
of me” (Luke 22:19). The bread of affliction, the bread
without leaven, became a symbol for the death of the
Messiah. But it also became a symbol of our hope. As
an early follower of Jesus, Paul, puts it, “For our sake he
made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we
might become the righteousness of God” (2 Corinthians
5:21). In other words, the unleavened Messiah became
leaven for us, so that we can become the unleavenedness
of God.
Before I came to faith in Yeshua as Messiah, I
lived a pretty decent life. Sure, I was mean to people
sometimes, didn’t
always tell the
truth, but for the
most part I didn’t
do anything really
bad. No murders,
only a little stealing—
nothing major. And yet
at one point I realized that even
though I hadn’t committed any crimes against the law
of the land, I was in major need of God’s forgiveness.
I came to understand that I wasn’t holy—quite the
opposite in fact. I was a slave to sin, and I needed
someone to forgive me and set me free. As Yeshua said,
“Truly, truly, I say to you, everyone who practices sin is a
slave to sin . . . if the Son sets you free you will be free
indeed” (John 8:34, 36).
The rabbinic Jewish understanding of sin might
sound comforting to us, but in reality, it is an empty
comfort. For only through the Messiah can we really
deal with our sin problem. Paul, again, said it best,
“Cleanse out the old leaven that you may be a new
lump, as you really are unleavened. For Messiah, our
Passover lamb, has been sacrificed. Let us therefore
celebrate the festival, not with the old leaven, the
leaven of malice and evil, but with the unleavened bread
of sincerity and truth” (1 Corinthians 5:7–8).
So maybe Passover isn’t as boring as my friend says.
And maybe there is something to eating matzah for these
eight nights—not to spur us on to try harder not to sin,
but as a reminder that someone already took on that sin
for us. This Passover, as you purge the leaven from your
home, why not ask the Messiah Yeshua to purge it from
your heart? n
Endnote
1. See for example this letter from the Lubavitcher Rebbe Menachem Schneerson: j4j.co/schneersonissues
Watch our “Passover in 60 Seconds” video, check out our Passover recipes and read bonus Passover articles, all located at j4j.co/issues21v10. Feel free to send your comments on this edition to: [email protected]
BONUS FEATURES
Before I came to faith in Yeshua as Messiah, I lived a pretty decent life.